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hatchway
turned into a rush as a third shot was heard.
    On
deck all attention was on the harbour entrance. Officers on the quarterdeck had
telescopes trained and tense chatter spread. Some men leaped for the
foreshrouds to get a better view.
    It
was a naval cutter under a full press of sail, flying through the narrow
entrance of the harbour, an enormous ensign streaming and some sort of signal on
both shrouds. A white puff appeared on her fo'c'sle, the thump arriving seconds
later.
    'Despatches
- she's a packet boat,' Stirk growled. 'An' goin' rapful - she's got some noos
fer us, mates!' he said, with unnecessary emphasis.
    The
cutter raced along, and made a neat tack about opposite the signal tower.
Backing her single topsail she subsided to a stop and hove to, her boat
launched almost immediately. It passed close to the receiving ship, the single
officer ignoring the shouted pleas for news echoing over the water. It made the
landing place, and the officer hurried up the stone stairs. He disappeared
among the buildings while the boat shoved off again, to lie off.
    It
was galling to know that something of deep importance was taking place within
a stone's throw, and speculation flew about, opinions ranging wildly from the
French at sea on their way to invade to the death of the sovereign.
    They
had not long to wait. A deeper-throated great gun, probably from the fort more
inland, sullenly boomed out and a line of soldiers emerged, trotting in a
single line along the waterfront On deck the excited chatter died away. Another
gun boomed, but then Renzi cocked his head. 'The church bells are ringing. It
seems we must celebrate a victory!'
    More
bells joined in, and more. From the halliards of the signal tower burst hoists
of flags, and the water became alive with craft furiously criss-crossing the
harbour. In exasperation men hung from the rigging, watching the growing
excitement ashore. A receiving ship's main purpose was as a floating barracks
for the victims of the press-gang before they were sent out to their ship, and
had well-tested means of keeping men aboard; they would have to contain their
frustration for now.
    Happily,
it soon became clear that boats were putting off to spread the news. A pinnace
sped towards them, a midshipman standing perilously in the sternsheets waving
madly. Indistinct shouting tantalised, but soon it was close enough for the
shrill words of the excited youngster to come through: it was a great victory
by Admiral Howe, out in the stormy seas of the Atlantic not three days before.
In a rush the boat was alongside and the midshipman flew up the side, pelting
aft to the quarterdeck to report.
    The
seamen lost no time in hanging over the side and getting their story from the
boat's crew, the tale disjointed and wild but plain in its essentials. Admiral
Howe had been at sea for weeks, knowing that a desperately needed convoy of
grain was coming from America to relieve revolution-racked France, heavily
guarded, of course. The two fleets met at sea and a running battle over three
days had culminated in a titanic clash on 1June and a crushing defeat for the French.
    Willing
hands hauled on lines of flags as the receiving ship dressed overall, her token
four-pounders banging out to add to the bedlam all around, a delirious show
from a nation at the news of a great victory in a major Fleet action at sea.
    Ashore,
the dockyard and the town were filling with people, their shouts carrying
faintly to the frustrated men who knew full well what was developing in the
taverns and pot-houses of the town.
    But
to their unspeakable mortification, the Artemis survivors were not allowed to join in the
merry-making — and it was so easy to remember their own wild reception after
their victory in a sea duel with a French frigate, the first fight among equals
of the war, and they wanted to relive the euphoria. There was nothing to do but
stare longingly at the shore and endure, a hard and bitter thing for men who
had